


vanilla latte

by decidingdolan



Series: one more bite [3]
Category: 13 Reasons Why (TV)
Genre: Clay on Hannah, F/M, Introspection, Second Person, bittersweet melancholy, missing all that was and all the no longer were
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-13
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2018-11-13 19:01:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11191392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decidingdolan/pseuds/decidingdolan
Summary: press play. watch the scenes. remember the moments, remembering her.thoughts on the girl who left from the boy who stayed.





	vanilla latte

 

  

 _Someone has to leave first. This is a very old story._  
_There is no other version of this story._

 _\--Richard Siken, excerpt of_ The Worm King’s Lullaby

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Life would be easier if it were a movie.

 

Scripted scenes, do-overs. Laugh off the bloopers and say it's okay.

 

Replay the moments.

 

Remember her laughs.

 

Change the angle where you're standing, just to read what's on her mind.

 

She's eying Justin, soaked and half-naked and smiling. You're a passive bystander, a third person lingering at the corner of their frame.

 

He glanced at her (as Justin would). She met his eyes, coy and lovely and averted her sight, perfection done in a couple of seconds, and you already knew where this roller coaster was going to land.

 

"So when are you going to tell her?" asked Kat, and you're scrutinizing yourself, your life, your countenance, the whole shebang. Wondering where you'd gone so wrong to be so goddamn transparent.

 

Then she brought up your long, exhaustive years of friendship, and you almost breathed a sigh of relief.

 

So it wasn't (probably wasn't) obvious to _her_ —to Hannah: this silent attraction, this premature pull you had toward her.

 

(But you were sixteen. And you were a boy.

 

Physical facts, but she was also one of the prettiest girls you'd ever seen. One of those ones.

 

And it wasn't because she was the new girl, either. None of that.)

 

'Most likely never' was your genetically programmed three-word reply to Kat.

 

Which you, personal confidentiality and all that, would keep to your own.

 

 

* * *

 

 

And then Hannah's fingers were tangled in your hair, and you're struggling to stand still.

 

Helmet hair. _What is that._ What was that to worry about when she's arranging and messing around, mussing up your head, shock full of disarrayed strands.

 

Her hand left your hair, and you're floating few feet off the concrete ground.

 

"That ship has sailed, don't you think?" she's saying, as she headed back inside the cinema. You watched her go, head buzzing and nerves couple of pinballs crashing into themselves.

 

The scene's passed. You and her were done.

Maybe there was a next time.

Maybe there would be a next time.

 

Your phone dinged. Spam message. Hannah at the foot of the rocket slide. You snuck a side glance at her, asked yourself:

 

_Who holds the key to your heart?_

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

She sat down next to you at the cushioned red seats, and you're defaming her lunch.

 

There were moments you recalled, moments you remembered, vivid as an iPhone clip, and her there with you was one of them.

 

Because of how it went so wrong so fast, so suddenly projected into the direction you hadn't expected you two to take.

 

You're sitting there now yourself, bag of M&M's on your lap. Thinking of her.

 

_You don't miss places._

_You miss the people._

 

You missed the moments you had. You missed the banter, the jokes, the laughter. You missed the smiles.

 

You missed the voice.

 

The worst things about a disappearance were your own thoughts. Your attachment. Your irreparable vision of seeing her where you'd met her.

 

This was where we used to be.

 

This was how it used to be.

 

This was how it ought to be.

 

This was how it should have been.

 

You and her, a bit more time, a trifle of time. For you to gather that courage. For you to stuff away those thoughts. For you to grow up enough to listen to her. For you to shed your idiotic inhibitions.

 

For you to stay.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

"There's that word again," you remember saying to her.

 

She's staring back at you, eyes fond, hair big, and looking pretty as ever. 

 

Hannah Baker was a novel. Hannah Baker was more than that collection of tapes she left behind. Hannah Baker was chronicles. She was long, twisted poems people'd spend hours agonizing over. She was riddles, treasure hunts and unsolved puzzles dotted in battleship's red stars around town. She was time. Your past, your present, your alternate life.

 

God, you hated that label.

 

Adorable. Adorable Nice Guy Clay.

 

Hannah had her tapes. You had your monsters.

 

She was perfectly still when your hands touched. When you held her waist, pulled her closer as Lord Huron's first notes started playing.

 

She was perfectly still, smiling and warm, and your poor damn heart was being blown to bits.

 

Anticipation may have something to do with it. Or maybe it was her.

 

Throwing you back into the loop before seventh grade again, when romance was the stuff of girls' gossip and you were only getting acquainted with that lone bottle in your bottom drawer.

 

Maybe that's it. Maybe that's why she lingered. Permanent ink stains in your threads. 

 

Hannah Baker could do that to you.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

You're kissing her and it felt like a self-perpetuated dream.

 

Mist over your sights and ice cool over your heart.

 

She's leaning into you, hands and lips and breaths, and you're trying to ground yourself back down, to live there, to stay there, in yourself, as yourself, touching her, tasting her. Being with her.

 

You're kissing Hannah Baker, and it was a half-formed joke you’d been telling yourself.

 

She pushed you away when your palm was plastered on her thigh (skin. Sweet skin.), and reality reminded you of illusions' expiry date.

 

People spoke of time, of distance separating relationships. She'd gone where you could speak to her no longer, couldn't whisper your amends. Couldn't tell her to her face that you were sorry.

 

Couldn't gift her your apologies even if you tried.

 

She's staring at you, your name on her lips. You're staring back at her, feelings brewing at the pit of your stomach, and you're thinking.

 

_No, this was definitely not built to last._

 

 

 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for stopping by, reading, and reviewing!
> 
> infinite loves,
> 
> because somebody out there, somebody who's definitely out there, loves you.
> 
> x
> 
> PS: on the title:
> 
> (based on Tony's boyfriend's label of Clay, of course. what else. which i wholeheartedly agree, and have been trying to tie into my fics for the longest time)
> 
> you're a tall vanilla latte, my baby. you're a plain coffee infused with milk and washed down the throat piping hot and soothing.
> 
> you're sweet smiles and long glances  
> open lips and unspoken words  
> thoughts fueled by anxiety and impulses left and not acted upon.
> 
> you're all smooth sailing with bitter depths  
> and you're alone and lovely and still.


End file.
